


no love like your love

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21514924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a collection of tumblr drabbles.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> by popular demand! i am posting some of the drabbles i've written on tumblr here for easier rereading. there shouldn't be anything heavy here—but please let me know if you need anything tagged regardless.
> 
> title is from nobody by hozier because it's about harry and louis and i cannot be convinced otherwise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "star-crossed lovers and green-eyed epiphany"
> 
> tags: ghost harry, not-ghost louis, discussions of death

Harry _hated _Cliff, once upon a time. Animals don’t have to deal with any of the second-guessing, what-if-this or maybe-that, I-know-better-than-my-gut bullshit that humans do. It was just that Harry would walk in, quiet as he could, and Cliff’s head would pop up, and he’d make this soft, grumbling whine, his head tilting quizzically, and Harry would feel _seen_. 

That alone was unnerving, but it made it even worse when he’d start wondering at what point he’d been dead long enough to actively wish he were completely, utterly invisible.

And if he hated Cliff, once upon a time, then he really, really _despised _Louis.

Louis, who moved into his peaceful abode, his shabby one-bedroom apartment with the leaky faucet and the weird green stain in the carpet right by the front door, with the empty places where his pictures hung before—well. He’s dead, so they’re gone. As apartment 205′s brand-new, living-breathing-always-laughing occupant, Louis served as a constant, bitter reminder of Harry’s current… state of existence. 

At some point, Harry’s bone-deep anger subsided, and dissolved into something worse—_want_.

He’d always been prone to this sort of thing, so it was no surprise that, as he went through the days by Louis’s side, without Louis really knowing, he began to pine. Badly, at that. Imagined that if they’d met under any circumstance where Harry was not a fucking _ghost_, then maybe they would be friends, or… or something. 

On the worst days, Harry’s favorite daydream was that Louis would move in next door, and they’d meet in the elevator—when it wasn’t “down for maintenance,” of course—and Louis would look up at him, and smile that sharp smile, and Harry’d say something clever to make him want to see him again. Over the course of their elevator meetings, and not because he sat and watched Louis slave over grading stacks of papers every night, Harry would learn that Louis was a teacher at the middle school. He’d learn that Louis laughed in the weirdest way, like, _ha ha ha_, with his head thrown back, and his eyes shut, and it’d be because, in this fantasy, Harry was funny enough to keep him laughing like that; not because he was a fly on the wall when Louis had Liam and Niall over and nothing made Louis laugh harder than giving Liam a hard time.

Somewhere along the way—Harry is terrified that he’s just going fucking insane, and that this is just something he’d dreamt into reality—something shifted. Harry thought he’d go to the balcony, just to see the sun. Cliff went still, his ears perking, and yipped; Harry just smiled, wishing he could give Cliff a little scratch under the chin, just how he liked it. He didn’t hate Cliff anymore, at this point.

Just as he reached the glass door, he heard: “What… the fuck.”

Curious, Harry turned, wondering what Louis had seen.

Louis said, haltingly, his voice trembling, “Who the _fuck _are you?”

It was more than a little cliché, but Harry did nothing but stop. And blink. And whisper, wondrous: “You can see me?”

From there it was a slow, slow process of unlearning what he thought was love, accepting that it was only a peculiar brand of especially-convincing loneliness, and relearning what it meant to _exist _to someone, to be their friend, to be present. 

Death had made Harry a little bit of a brat, as it were, and Louis always says so, although he’s usually petting Harry’s hair or holding him when he does.

Harry doesn’t know why the universe had been agreeable enough to let him have Louis, at least, or why it’s allowed him the illusion of corporeality when everything else only serves to remind him that he doesn’t have that anymore. But he’d never complain. 

Louis is the only thing he can touch—can _feel_—and Louis makes him _real_. Louis is his whole _world_. 

Being nothing but a campfire story has turned Harry into someone he never was, when he was still alive. Has made him unrecognizably bad-tempered and unfair and desolate and all sorts of ugly things, but he’s not like that, with Louis.

“Where’re you going?” Harry asks, his brow knitting into a frown as Louis comes out of his bedroom in a crisp button-down and jeans he _never _wears. There’s a part of him that knows, of course, because Harry isn’t stupid, and he only died, like, three years ago, so he hasn’t forgotten _everything _about being a person. He sits up. If he still had a physical body, his back probably would have protested. As it stands, he doesn’t have one, so it doesn’t.

He doesn’t know why Louis looks so sheepish. It’s not like he’s not allowed to go on dates, or something, just because he happens to have an unexpected roommate. Which is all that Harry is, really. 

“Some guy… one of Liam’s coworkers, I guess… it’s not—” Louis stops. Shrugs.

“Oh,” says Harry.

“Yeah,” says Louis.

“I, uh.” Harry’s smiling, but a weird, twisted one that leaves his cheeks aching. “Hope it goes well. You’ve been single as long as I’ve known you.”

Louis winces. “Yeah,” he says again. His nice, shiny oxfords make odd noises against the shitty carpet when he comes over, and his palm is, as always, terribly warm against Harry’s cheek. Then the side of his neck, and his shoulder, where Louis squeezes, looking pinched, for some reason. 

“Don’t miss me too much,” he says, and Harry _will_, but no matter.

“It won’t be a problem. I barely tolerate you,” Harry sniffs.

“Of course, darling,” Louis laughs, leaning down to kiss Harry’s hair, and then he’s gone.

Harry lets the silence sit for a long, long while. At some point, Cliff comes skulking out of the empty bedroom, shakes himself out, and then trots over to sit on Harry’s legs—or where Harry’s legs are supposed to be, anyhow. Harry smiles. His heart hurts, and he can’t do anything but wallow in it.

He wonders what Louis’s date is like. Maybe he’s quiet—the perfect foil to Louis’s whirlwind, whip-quick energy. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s got a raucous cackle, even more ridiculous than Harry’s, and maybe he won’t hesitate at the end of the night before leaning in for a kiss, and maybe they’ll see each other again, and again, and again, and Harry will just be here. Stuck. Dead.

“God,” Harry moans, his stomach churning and churning, feeling like it’s about to be sucked down to his knees. “Fuck this, Cliff.”

If Louis finds someone else—well, not someone _else_, Harry’s not his _someone _in the first place—then his perfect, carefully-built, unhealthy, fragile not-quite-life will come tumbling down. And what is he supposed to do?

How can he ever, ever ask Louis to—to _accommodate _him? 

Just as he can feel himself thinking himself into a hole he’ll never claw his way out of, Cliff’s head pops up. The lock clicks. And Louis is—back? 

“Was it that bad?” Harry asks weakly. He can only stare down at his hands where they’re clasped tightly in his lap. Louis chuckles, but there’s something off-kilter about it.

“Harry,” he says. 

“What?”

Louis shrugs his coat off. Kicks his shoes in two different directions. Harry bites his tongue to keep from scolding him. The mood is too somber for that. But Louis pauses, then grabs each shoe, and arranges them carefully next to the others. Despite himself, Harry smiles.

“Lou,” Harry says. “What happened?”

And he thinks, _Harry, you sad fuck, how did you ever believe you didn’t love him like this?_

“Well, you’re dead,” Louis says. “That’s the first problem. The second problem is that you’re dead and I love you. Am in love. With you. Even though you are remarkably chatty for a dead man, and, like, make the same jokes about haunting me every _single _day. So I must be fucking out of my mind.”

Harry’s brain seems to have exited the building. He fishmouths for a good five seconds.

“Really?” he manages weakly.

“Ah. Yes,” Louis says.

“You know I can never… like, I’m very much dead. And stuck here forever. And you’re… not.”

“Yes,” Louis says.

“Okay,” Harry says. “What did you say? To your date?”

Louis smiles, shrugs. “I sort of—cancelled? I said I was ill.”

“So you just…” 

“Sat outside and had an existential crisis, yeah,” Louis snorts.

“Me too. Well, inside. But a crisis was happening,” Harry says. He staggers off the couch, and manages to cross the room without ending up as a lovesick heap on the floor. “I’d like it if you kissed me.”

Louis’s fingers curl around the back of Harry’s neck. His kiss is effortless; his mouth fitting gently over Harry’s, his tongue warm, his teeth playing cruel. Harry falls into him with a sigh. This is impossible, and unthinkable, and he knows, in all likelihood, that his immortal (or—too-mortal?) heart will be left in a million pieces in the aftermath. But this moment, where Louis squeezes him close, and murmurs his name—this moment is real. 

And Harry—Harry is real, too.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the dialogue prompt "i paid for half and you ate three-quarters"
> 
> tags: roadtrip au, pining, best friends

“Hey,” Louis murmurs into the stillness, which is only fractured by radio-static, by the flicker of someone else’s passing headlights, by the hitch of Louis’s breath when, caught in whatever half-conscious dream he’s having, Harry curls his fingers tight around the plane of Louis’s thigh, where they rest, and burn, and have for the last fucking _hour_. 

_What are you trying to hold on to? _Louis thinks, swallowing hard when he glances over and finds Harry’s hazy eyes, as soft and liquid as his crooked smile.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” Harry rasps.

“Nah,” Louis says. Harry hasn’t let go of him yet, but, somehow, his voice is steady. “I mean, at least you didn’t do it behind the wheel.”

“Silver linings,” Harry laughs. “Where are we?”

“Dunno.” Louis shrugs. Harry squeezes his thigh and it’s only in that moment that he notices he’s about to hit a hundred miles per hour. It’s so dark and so barren that he supposes it doesn’t matter. He scrambles to tack on an afterthought lest he give in to the temptation to say something dangerous: “Somewhere between where we were and where we’re supposed to be.”

It makes Harry snort, at least. And give him a pat. Then, seemingly fascinated by the fabric of Louis’s sweatpants, or maybe by the shape of Louis under his palm, Harry tightens his grip again, and touches Louis all the way down to his knee, knuckles bumping the bottom of the steering wheel.

“We’re going to crash,” Louis says. “If you keep—”

The radio cuts out completely; not even a snippet of a song through the disconnected white noise to keep them company. So it’s just Louis, and Harry, Harry’s big hand, the shadow-shape of Harry’s mouth and its sideways smile, Louis’s frantic heart, and some middle-of-nowhere wasteland. 

“What were you going to say?”

“Huh?”

“When you woke me up.”

“Sorry,” Louis says immediately. When Harry _finally _withdraws his touch, Louis feels his shoulders slump. He eases his foot off the gas. “Oh—uh, I was just gonna say, there’s an exit coming up. We could stop for a little bit, since it’s probably gonna be the last one we see for a while. Still got a long way to go.”

“Sure,” Harry says. “I’m a little hungry.” He pats his belly. Louis just shakes his head and chuckles, and signals to pull off the highway half a mile later. He’s not sure why. There’s no one out here.

The town—if it that’s the right name for it—glimmers down the road. There’s a motel, a diner with a flickering _OPEN _sign, and a travel center with a conveniently adjoined McDonald’s that Louis turns into so they can get gas. It’s odd to see people around—mostly truckers—after driving for so long through absolutely nothing. 

“You know what I like,” Louis says, thumbing a worn ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and handing it over to Harry, who scampers into the store, and returns a little while later with a monumental amount of food.

“We should probably eat on the way,” Harry says. He’s right. It’s already late, and wasting even thirty minutes here seems like a shitty idea. 

So, after he runs in to “take a piss,” (meaning take a piss and also have only the littlest crisis over how badly he loves his best friend) they get back on the road. Minimal fuss. This place’ll never remember them, but Louis has a hard time doing anything but noticing how its lights dapple Harry’s skin. 

Harry doesn’t fall asleep again, although he seems to come close a time or two. Louis shakes the last of the french fries straight out of the carton and into his mouth, then wrinkles his nose when he manages to smear potato grease all over the steering wheel. 

“You ate three-quarters,” Harry says, reaching across the center console. He touches Louis’s thigh again: one good, long stroke. Almost-hip to almost-knee. Louis bites the inside of his lip and wants to scream.

“What?” he croaks.

“I paid for half and you ate three-quarters.”

“No I didn’t,” Louis says.

“Uh, yeah. ‘Cause there were two fries, one for you, one for me, and you had both. So.”

Louis squints. He flicks his high beams on. “I don’t think math is your strong suit.”

“Hey!” 

Harry’s pouting. Louis wants to bite him. Hard. Just sink his teeth in and chew that lip into a raw bruise and taste it and, and—and whatever.

“Okay,” Louis says. “Then what do you want? Since I ate three-quarters of the meal that, _for the record_, you couldn’t even finish.”

Harry giggles, but the ensuing silence lasts for a long, long beat. He hears Harry suck in a breath, shove a free hand through his unruly hair, although he never lets go of Louis.

“That’s a tough question,” Harry says. “I want lots of things.”

“Sure. Brat.”

“What if I wanted you to pull over? Would you do it?”

“I mean—”

“What if I wanted you to pull over so I could kiss you? Would you want that, too?”

It’s like his chest has cracked, his lungs have ruptured, and the air’s gone straight out of him. Is he supposed to say yes?

“I want you to be honest,” Harry says.

“You _do _want lots of things,” Louis breathes.

Because Harry wants to be the death of both of them, apparently, he cranes all the way over and plants one gentle kiss to Louis’s shoulder. It sears through Louis’s shirt, somehow. 

“If you’re honest it’ll be enough to pay me back. You know, for the fries.”

He catches sight of Harry’s dimple out of the corner of his eye. It’s—he doesn’t know if he knows _how _to be honest, at least not about this. 

“It sounds like you already know the answer.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “But me knowing the answer isn’t, like, it’s not relevant to the terms of our agreement.”

Louis laughs, despite himself. It’s like every last nerve in his body is trying to cut through his skin. Like Harry sank his teeth in, chewed him up, bit him raw. He can’t look away from the road because he feels like he might drive right off of it and into the void if he looks at Harry at all.

“I’d want that, too,” he concedes. “Shit, Harry. I love you a lot.”

Harry yawns, flips his hand over, grins when Louis lets go of the wheel to hook their fingertips together. “You’d better,” he says. “We still have, like, a million miles to go.”


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "harry works at an animal shelter and louis comes in to get a dog..."
> 
> tags: um harry works at an animal shelter, cliff the dog, minor liam payne, this is a love letter to nouis, some kind of college/grad school au

Here’s the thing: Louis is happy for Niall. He’s over the fucking moon for Niall, actually.

Niall, with his steady presence, unrepentant refusal to take any shit, warm belly laugh, and chicken legs, deserves to be adored more than anyone else Louis knows, probably. It isn’t that he’s bitter about Niall fucking off and moving in with the love of his life after their lease was up; he’d do the same, if he also had a tall brunette boyfriend with the voice of an angel and particularly well-toned biceps.

It’s that he hadn’t been prepared for how _lonely _he’d be afterwards, living on his own.

Which—yes, Louis is a grown man, and yes, if nothing else, the drudgery of academia has taught him some valuable coping mechanisms with regards to emotional crises, but without Niall, he is a sad, _reclusive_ grown man. If only bright-eyed, wild, twenty one year old Louis could see what he’s turned into.

Because there’s no _fucking _way he can tell Niall about this predicament without the both of them losing their composure, he decides on the next best thing: Liam. This turns out to be a fairly sound decision.

Liam looks concerned when Louis dumps himself into the chair across from him, both hands wrapped around a latte he’s been nursing since about 10am. Well—Liam always looks a little concerned. But his frown is especially deep right now, his gaze soft and careful.

“So,” Louis says. “I’m having some issues.”

He narrows his eyes when Liam snorts, despite his puppy-stare, “I couldn’t tell.”

“Okay. Not necessary, Liam. Anyway.” Louis takes a sip of tepid coffee, nose wrinkling. “I’m glad for him, you know? It’s sick that he found _the one _or whatever. It’s pretty cool.”

“You sound like a jilted ex-boyfriend,” Liam says. His brow knits. “Jilted? Is that a word?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think it is,” Louis says, and then frowns. “I mean, I think. You should Google it. Anyway! I don’t. I don’t even miss him that much. I’m just pretty sure this is the first time I’ve gone anywhere but campus or home in… a week, man.”

And, like, Liam doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised or anything. He just sips his coffee, too. Louis pointedly does not mention the foam he gets on the tip of his nose, just sighs heavily and waits for Liam’s sage, occasionally too-astute advice. The worst part is that Liam’s so earnest he never even means to say exactly the right thing at the right time; he just _does_.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I think you should get a pet.”

Louis snickers, and Liam rolls his eyes. “I’m serious! Listen, when Niall was around it was like you had someone to, like… you know. Do your whole—your thing with. The big brother, taking care of everyone but yourself thing. And now you just need something else to channel that energy into. Like a pet!”

It makes sense, Louis supposes. It wasn’t like Niall _needed _to be babied, or anything, but he definitely sort of liked to be, in his own weird way. And if there’s anything Louis’s good at—well.

“But it’s a lot of work,” Louis reasons.

“Not like you have anything better to do,” Liam also reasons. “Go get a dog. Or even a cat, they’re low-maintenance and stuff.”

“Cats and I don’t get along,” Louis huffs.

He imagines coming home from class and having a happy, furry thing bound up to him, ready to hear about his day and maybe go on a walk or whatever. This imagined scenario is upsettingly akin to his routine with Niall.

Fine. It wouldn’t hurt to look.

•••

The Humane Society, a stocky brick building out in the suburbs, is raucous when he arrives just after noon on a Saturday. There are multiple dogs in the lobby, one of whom seems intent on mauling any creature that comes near her, a ridiculous line leading up to the reception desk, and about twelve frazzled-looking volunteers milling through the commotion. Louis is veritably terrified.

He manages to dodge the canine from hell, following the arrows indicating the way to the dog kennels. A few of them are empty. The others are occupied by little yappy things that rush to the front of the cages and shriek relentlessly at him as he passes. To be fair, they’re very cute, all of them, but he’d probably be kicked out of his apartment if he ever attempted to bring one home.

And, like, as much as he’d resisted Liam’s suggestion, the thought of leaving empty-handed is sort of disappointing. Louis crouches to say hello to one of the dogs, but she looks wary, doesn’t approach him even when he wiggles his fingers through the bars.

“Hi,” someone chirps from behind him. “She’s a little scared right now. Just got here.”

Louis startles, rising to his feet and turning to face the volunteer leveling him with a devastating, crooked grin. He’s very pretty, wide-shouldered, doe-eyed, his hair curling wildly around his ears and held back from his face with a red bandana. His lips are very plush. And he has a big nose. There’s something distinctly familiar about him. These are all things Louis notices in a split-second as he responds, “Uh… yeah, can’t blame her. Yeah. Hi,” like some kind of fucking idiot.

“Are you looking to adopt today?” the volunteer asks. His eyelids are very soft and dewy under the burning fluorescents. Louis notices this, too, when he blinks. He’d never considered eyelids a kissable body part before, like, just now.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Great! I can help you,” the volunteer says. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

“Kind of,” he says, miraculously normal-sounding. “Um, well, I live in an apartment, so I guess—I guess it’s gotta be okay with that. Good with kids? Preferably house-trained.”

With that berry-red mouth pursed in consideration, the volunteer nods. “So, unfortunately, it’s pretty hard to find dogs that we know are apartment-friendly, and a lot of them are strays, so your best bet for one who fits all your criteria is probably an owner surrender, and those usually get adopted out really fast. I don’t know if any of our dogs right now’ll fit what you need.”

“Oh,” Louis says.

“But if you wanna fill out an application, we can keep that on file and I can give you a call if we happen to find a good match!”

“Yeah, all right. Let’s do that.” Louis grins, and the volunteer does, too. His name tag, Louis realizes belatedly, reads _Harry_.

•••

He gets a call exactly three weeks later, and nearly trips over his own feet trying to get out of his quiet, dog-less home, listening to the voicemail Harry’d left him just to hear that syrupy voice again despite the fact that the transcription’s right there. The shelter is no less hectic today than the last time he’d been here, but Harry’s at the front desk, and his eyes brighten when he sees Louis, his cheek dimpling sweetly.

“Louis!” he says. “I’d hoped you got my message. We just got this dog a few days ago and I thought of you.”

It’s equal parts weird and sweet that he’d been on Harry’s mind, Louis thinks, since they’d only talked for a little while, and although they’d clicked well—he can’t get Harry’s honking laugh out of his head, so maybe better than well—he didn’t think he was all that special. This shelter sees hundreds of people every day.

But he’s not complaining. Smiling wide, Louis follows Harry into the east wing of kennels. The extra-large cage they stop in front of seems unoccupied—but there’s an info sheet hanging off the front of it, and when Harry reaches into his pocket and fishes around for a treat to hand to Louis, a very large, very furry, very graceless thing comes bounding out of the hidden back of the kennel, his tongue hanging halfway out of his mouth. He’s horrifyingly cute, and Louis can’t help but croon to him as he tosses the treat his way.

“You wanna meet him?” Harry asks.

•••

Louis’s new dog is called Clifford, which is a highly enjoyable name. Harry seems to agree.

“Dogs with human names are the best,” he says as Louis fills out the last bits of the application. “Imagine a dog named, like, William, or something.”

It’s not even _that _funny, but Louis snickers anyway. Then he pauses.

“Do you want to—“

“I need to tell you—“

Louis shuts his mouth. “What were you gonna say? Sorry.”

Harry’s sort of flushed, for some reason. He’s either over-warm or he’s blushing. Louis sets his pen down and stares very hard at Harry’s pouty bottom lip.

“Okay, uh. I should tell you. The whole—we don’t usually call people on file. Technically it’s, like, not really allowed? I mean—I’m actually the adoption coordinator so I can do what I want, I guess. Like, not really, you know, but I can get away with it.”

He is really, hopelessly endearing, even rambling like this; he stops short and heaves a deep breath when Louis cocks a questioning brow at him.

“Well, it’s sort of against policy—not explicitly. It’s just not something we _do_. But you came in and, uh, well, we had this class together a while ago, and I always thought you were—you know. I thought you were cute and I don’t think you remember me ‘cause I had long hair back then but we were paired up for this project and I had a massive crush on you but you were always talking about your boyfriend? And then, like, when I saw you again you looked so sad about that dog not wanting to say hello and I was like oh, fuck, and, like, you know.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, fairly eloquently.

“Um, the point is that I’m glad you and Clifford were a good match because I think you’re gonna give him a great home but I also just, like, wanted to see you again and that’s why I made sure to call and I…. wait, what were you gonna say?”

Louis stares for a moment, then glances down at Cliff, who has sprawled across his feet and is apparently fast asleep. “Oh, I was just—do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Harry’s eyes blow wide. “I would… yeah. That would be great.” His flush has crept all the way down his neck, and that delights Louis, but then he stops short, frowns.

“I haven’t been in a relationship in forever,” he says.

“Oh,” Harry says. “I guess—sorry. I think his name was Niall. I dunno. I was jealous.”

Louis groans.

•••

To his credit, Niall only laughs for, like, ten minutes when he finally hears about it all.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a prompt for [this louis](https://66.media.tumblr.com/d94dcb45cce046ae47ca88abbc5ff9f4/53b541995e2026f3-83/s540x810/3e2d9cb311364b6b918518bd3f35936a0c695d9e.png) and [this harry](https://66.media.tumblr.com/937c903c6b00b4d507fb8c3664def2d5/4b8e5a5e3d518bc9-82/s540x810/1bf09eb44d5bcf2f59bf711b3426e92710497456.png).
> 
> tags: college au, very light angst, internalized homophobia

Louis suspects that Harry is avoiding him. 

And Louis suspects this—no, he _knows _this—because, to his utter discontent, Harry is awful at pretending that things are all right while _also _being awful at talking about the things that aren’t, which means for the past two weeks they’ve been caught in an exceedingly awkward dance, wherein every time Louis tries to speak to him, Harry literally bolts.

At least he usually has an excuse, even though this morning’s had been pathetic: he’d come into the kitchen, and Harry, with his breakfast smoothie still in the blender and snapback sitting on the counter, put his head down, mumbled something about being late for class, and rushed out the door. It would’ve been comical if Louis hadn’t been thoroughly heartbroken.

It’s just that—okay, Louis isn’t great at minding his own business, and he’s impatient to boot, so it makes sense that it bothers him how hard Harry is to crack. They’re best friends, and Louis wants to know him as deeply as he often feels he does. But he’d learned quickly that small-town Harry doesn’t know how to be anything but lonely; he vacillates between an enviable charisma and self-imposed exile, easily exhausted by playing a careful character he has no choice but to wear if he wants to be accepted—if he wants to be invulnerable. Sometimes Louis wishes he found Harry as annoying as he used to, because it’d probably be easier than this.

The universe may be on his side tonight, though, because when he trudges through their front door, his cheeks bitten red by the windchill, Harry is on the couch. Granted, he looks fucking miserable, but he’s _there_, and shirtless to boot, so Louis must have done something right. He lingers for a moment, then clears his throat as he sheds his shoes and jacket.

“Harry,” his traitorous mouth says before he wants it to. Harry looks up, visibly startled. When he looks like he’s about to run, his fingers white-knuckling the arm of the couch, Louis sighs: “Wait.”

He must sound as drained as he feels, because Harry does pause, sitting back slowly—and looking even more like he wants to sink into the ground and disappear as he fiddles with the hem of his gym shorts.

It’s an aching reminder of how Harry’d looked when they first met a year earlier, frightened and out of his depth as he was. He’d already been in college for a year at that point, but still tripped over his feet when he navigated the world. Louis got the sense that Harry’s teenage years had not been easy, but he didn’t understand why—as they grew closer, it became evident that Harry didn’t quite understand why, either. 

“What?” Harry asks warily. 

“I—”

Louis realizes that, as badly as he’s been wanting to have a conversation with Harry, he doesn’t actually know what to _say_. Or what there is to have a conversation about, seeing as Harry hasn’t really, like, given him an explanation. He thought—he _really_ thought things had been great.

He sighs, shuffling over and taking a careful seat at the opposite end of the couch. The space between them is yawning. Louis keeps looking at Harry’s big hand, curled tight and anxious on his own thigh. Normally he’d reach across to take it, thumb over Harry’s knuckles or maybe kiss them, if he dared.

“Is everything okay?” he asks quietly.

There’s a heartbeat’s silence. Louis isn’t used to second-guessing himself, but Harry’s face crumples angrily and he wonders how he’d fucked up on _that, _too.

“Yeah,” Harry says hoarsely. His voice is thirty shades huskier than normal, and his eyes, when he finally turns his gaze to Louis, are endlessly dark, liquid. Halfway-pleading.

“Are you lying?”

“No!” Harry snaps. Louis recoils, and Harry’s brows pinch together guiltily, but he folds defensive arms over his chest. “No, sorry, I—I don’t know. Sorry. Things’ve been really, really weird.”

“Is this—did I do something? Look, man, it’s really—it’s stupid to expect me to just _know _if I did. It’s not fair. I miss you. You don’t have to _lie _if it’s…” Louis’s sentence dissolves on his tongue when he notices Harry’s not meeting his eye anymore. So he _did _do something.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats. “It’s not really your fault, I—yeah, I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”

Nothing he’s saying makes any of it make sense, and Louis says as much. “Fuck, stop apologizing. Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

Harry tips his head back, almost exasperated, and Louis watches his throat bob several times as he tries to find his words. It’s fine—he’ll wait. Harry seems like he might be on the verge of tears when he finally does speak.

“When we kissed,” he starts carefully, and Louis’s heart sinks, something sick curdling in his belly. He opens his mouth, and Harry holds a hand up. “No, wait, I know. You wanted to forget about it, it’s not—I mean, I did, too. But not because… I don’t want anything from you, Lou, I promise, I know it was just—you were—you just don’t—”

“Spit it out,” Louis grinds out. He regrets it immediately: Harry rubs frustrated knuckles into his eye, sniffles, and Louis slides over to touch his shoulder, the side of his neck, which Louis vividly remembers wanting to taste, that night. Which he _did _taste.

“I know you don’t want me like that,” Harry says. “Or—you shouldn’t. And I know it was shitty of me to just stop talking to you like that, but I swear I just thought—I thought you figured me out, and I was fucking terrified.”

Louis sits back. He laughs before he can help himself. “Baby,” he says. “Harry. You’re the last thing I’ve got figured out. I wish I did, but I don’t even know what you’re talking ab—”

“I like you,” Harry says. Squeaks. Louis thinks he’d heard him wrong, but Harry’s blushing so hot, and his hands are trembling. “I like—I adore you, Lou. I can’t believe I treated you like _shit _for, like, two weeks, and all you did was ask if I was okay! But I’ve never even—I’ve only been gay for, like, a month! I don’t even know how to like guys! And I think I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like, forever, but even when we were doing it I was afraid, and I thought you deserved someone who doesn’t—who doesn’t hesitate, like I do. Someone easier.”

Harry hangs his head sadly. Louis’s blood is rushing in his ears. 

“That’s not fucking true,” he says fiercely. “If I’d _known—_you just need to talk to me! If you did I could’ve told you how much I love you and we wouldn’t even be having this problem!”

He reaches up, slides his fingers through Harry’s soft hair, and guides Harry down to pillow against him, smiling when he feels Harry band a tentative arm over his middle. 

“I’m—it’s just hard to talk about it,” Harry whispers. “I’m not used to it being _okay_ to talk about it.”

Louis softens, dips his chin, and kisses the top of Harry’s head. He wears this warm, spicy cologne, but his hair smells like coconuts. “I didn’t mean to be harsh,” he murmurs. “I get it. I promise I do. I don’t want to push you, I just want to know what’s going on in your head. Because I care about you. You know that, right? It’s normal to feel that way. To be scared.”

Harry’s quiet save for a loud, hitching breath. Then, soft, right against Louis’s shoulder, he murmurs, “You said you love me.” He might be smiling now.

“Yeah,” Louis says, squeezing the nape of Harry’s neck so he shivers. “I do. A lot. Even when it’s not easy.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, you’re pretty even when you’re being annoying.”

“I’m sorry!” Harry whines. “I’m not good at, um, lying to you.”

Raising a brow, Louis snorts. “I know,” he says. “I had to put your smoothie in the fridge.”

“Louis,” Harry says carefully. “That’s gross.”

“I mean, It’s hard to make those protein shake things _worse_,” Louis says. Harry reaches up to pinch his nipple, and for all his worrying, he doesn’t hesitate before he pulls Louis down for a kiss.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unapologetic stupidity, based on [harry styles being a complete slut!](https://dykes4louis.tumblr.com/post/189200728342/stylesupdated-harry-performing-kiwi-outside-the)
> 
> tags: crack fic, harry styles being a complete slut, late late show, canon divergent

Louis is late.

It’d seem he’s actually crossing the thin line between _late _and _really fucking late_, but Louis is _really fucking late _for something at least once a week, so he’s sure Niall won’t mind having to wait an extra—he glances at the clock and winces—thirty-five minutes for Louis to show up to their routine coffee date.

Because what _doesn’t _happen once a week is this: a man, who looks suspiciously like the same man who’d been on Louis’s TV a week ago, tumbles out from a small group gathered on the street corner, followed by several people holding guitars that appear to be entirely obsolete.

Horrified, Louis watches as Harry Styles (if the glittery silver sign behind him is anything to go by) proceeds to just—he just climbs up on his little platform and starts singing. Just like that.

If Louis had not been stewing in the slowly-building hell of LA traffic, he’d probably entertain the fleeting thought that Harry Styles is a pretty good performer. As it stands, he’s _really fucking late_, albeit with a relatively strong excuse, so this is more of a—a minor annoyance. He would like to see Niall’s face at some point today, if possible.

“Oh, no,” Louis says. “Oh, God, no—”

It seems Harry Styles is barreling towards him. Well, prancing. But aggressively, with the microphone still held to his mouth—is he actually singing? It’s not clear. It _is, _however, veryapparent that Harry Styles has set his sights on Louis, or at least Louis’s vehicle, and is so near now that Louis can see the mischievous glint in his eye. If Louis hadn’t been sitting behind the wheel at this eternity-long red light, he probably would have spared a quick thought to admire how handsome Harry Styles is. He’s got nice hair, and that heart-wrenching dimple, but that’s all Louis manages to notice before Harry Styles turns around and plants himself on the hood of Louis’s car.

He seems too close and incredibly distant all at once. The approximate four seconds Harry Styles spends grinding his ass around mere feet from Louis drag by syrup-slow. It is—it’s a nice one. A nice ass. Fairly round, and those billowing pants follow its shape nicely, all the way up to a sweet little waist that, again, would have been more appreciable in _literally_ any other context.

And then he’s gone, and Harry Styles is now rubbing his wondrous ass against the next car over, but it kind of—it kind of looks like Harry Styles is peering through _Louis’s _window. 

The entire encounter lasts perhaps fifteen seconds, and that’s if Louis is being generous. Regardless, it feels like all the air’s backed up in Louis’s lungs. Niall’s gonna lose his fucking _mind _when he hears about this.

What remains of Harry Styles’s performance goes off without a hitch and without another instance of—of whatever filth it was he’d perpetrated against Louis’s automobile. Still, traffic does not move. And Louis lies in wait.

He’s half-considering just, like, taking a quick nap while he’s got the chance, but then there’s a little tap on his window, and when he looks over he shrieks. Harry Styles has his entire pretty face practically pressed up against the glass, like some kind of madman, and he’s grinning. Louis rolls the window down.

“Uh,” he says.

“Sorry about that,” Harry Styles says. “We’re filming this thing, uh, you know—a crosswalk performance, shouldn’t be much longer.”

As if Louis couldn’t tell. He doesn’t have the heart to be snarky about it; instead, he just blinks. And says, “Maybe we should, you know, exchange information.” Harry Styles cocks his head, half-smiling. He is—God, he’s really kind of stunning. His little pink tongue darts out over his bottom lip.

“You think?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Just in case you… ah, left a dent.”

Harry Styles pauses. And then he throws his head back and laughs.

Louis is so _fucking _late.


End file.
